


Maladies and Their Remedies (How to Keep Warm on the Open Road)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BUFF JASKIER, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Incorrect monster-terminology, Jaskier tries to protect Geralt and ends up almost dying, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump, also did i mention, brave Jaskier, buff Jaskier is a life force and i'm here to supply it, like disgustingly soft, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: The beast looms high above Jaskier, its cruel eyes glinting in the gloom. Geralt can only watch as it attacks, he can only watch as the ice between Jaskier's feet shatters and he is plunged into the icy abyss below.Once the monster is defeated and Jaskier is pulled almost lifeless from the lake's depths, Geralt knows that Jaskier needs warming up, and fast.And sometimes blankets and a burning fire simply aren't enough. Once Jaskier comes to his senses, there are far more creative ways that one can keep warm.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 34
Kudos: 645
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Maladies and Their Remedies (How to Keep Warm on the Open Road)

**Author's Note:**

> This kinda got away from me a bit. It was supposed to be a short hurt/comfort huddling for warmth fic and then uhhh it got longer.
> 
> I've never written anything like this before. I have no idea what I'm doing, it was SUPER embarrassing to write and I hope it's somewhat decent. Also this is now the longest oneshot I've ever written so there's probably a few (a lot) of mistakes here and there.

With the arrival of winter came the ice, thick sheets that formed over rivers and lakes, suffocating all those who dwelt underneath. Fish and insects and other creatures who lived within watery depths were pushed up against the ice, corpses exposed in translucent light. From atop the trees fell thinly laid icicles, drooping down from skeletal branches; crystalline daggers that shook and swayed with the merciless winds. 

There was something altogether quite pretty about the world under winter's spell, in a melancholy kind of way, if one could ignore the lightless days and long nights that the season carried with it.

It's brutally cold at this time of year, and perhaps this winter is much colder than the ones before it. A biting gale blows through the wasteland of forest; one that screeches like a savage banshee through the leafless trees and withered, snow-tipped grass. It makes it hard to enjoy the quiet beauty of the scenery around them; when their noses are numb and their cheeks sting and everything is uncomfortably damp.

Jaskier, as always, follows only a few paces behind Geralt; who sits atop of Roach. They move silently, save for the chattering of Jaskier's teeth, intermitted by his grumbled complaints and incoherent whines. ( _ How's it so fucking cold? I can't feel my cock, Geralt. I think it's frozen. What happens if it's broken? Can cold weather break your cock? Fuck Geralt, is this how we die? Dickless twats buried under eight feet of snow?)  _ He hurries on as he begins to fall behind, still trailing behind Geralt as his hands rub up and down across his arms, in a desperate attempt to return some warmth to them. He can't feel anything, his fingers had frozen into numbness  _ hours _ ago and his lute had remained firmly strapped to his back, forgotten in favour of complaining about  _ how fucking cold he is.  _ Geralt has wisely chosen to ignore most of it, occasionally throwing in a 'hmm' of disinterest when Jaskier had gotten particularly hysterical. 

But that was a good thirty minutes ago, and now he can't even  _ talk,  _ (a travesty in Jaskier's eyes but a blessing in Geralt's) for he's almost certain his tongue has frozen in his mouth and every time he  _ tries _ to say something it's barely coherent because his teeth won't stop fucking chattering and his brain can't even  _ think  _ of any words to say. He's so  _ cold,  _ and he can't feel  _ anything _ anymore. He could be dead, for all he knows. A ghost, because he sure as hell can't feel the ground beneath his feet. 

They're supposed to be searching for an Amphisbaena, which is (according to Geralt) basically just a big fucking snake, but it has two heads.  _ Two!  _ Because apparently one simply wasn't good enough. And, furthermore, it's not got what Jaskier would consider two 'normal' heads, instead it's just one long body, no tail, a head either side. The entire creature sounds utterly ridiculous and Jaskier is almost entirely convinced the villagers were taking the piss, but Geralt had insisted that they were, in fact, real creatures; and that they could actually be pretty dangerous; if left to their own devices for too long. 

The people in the village nearby had been complaining about it. Talking about an awful monster that dwelt in the depths of a lake a few days travel away, attacking anything that dared cross its path. So now they're here, going after it. 

Geralt had insisted (as he always does) that Jaskier was to remain behind, stay in the cosy warmth of the inn and enjoy a meal and drink, stay away and stay  _ safe.  _ Well, what Geralt had actually said, when Jaskier had followed him out of the inn, lute in hand, was 'Fuck off, Bard.', but Jaskier could see the words that went unsaid. So, as always, he'd followed Geralt out of the village, heedless to the grunted warnings and threats that Geralt would occasionally shoot his way. Besides, the entire trip would take  _ at least _ a week and Jaskier really didn't want to be left in some dingy old village all by himself and he wasn't quite prepared to part ways with the Witcher, not just yet. 'I've got more songs I still need to write', was his excuse but in actuality, he just liked Geralt's company. He always missed him dearly whenever they were parted and even if the life of a Witcher was fraught with danger, Jaskier quite enjoyed all the excitement. With over a decade of companionship under their belts, Jaskier would frequently find himself  _ looking _ for danger, looking for something different and new and exciting.

(Perhaps that is why they always seem to run into one another at some point. Perhaps it is not merely chance and coincidence, but rather there is a greater force that has so closely intertwined their lives with one another. Jaskier does not know whether or not he truly believes in destiny, but he  _ knows _ that there is something that draws him to Geralt, a sort of magnetism that he can never quite shake off)

They've been walking for maybe a couple of days now, journey slowed by the thick snow that has settled over the land. They still haven't found what they're looking for. Not that Jaskier  _ knows  _ exactly what they're looking for, he's just kind of trailing behind Geralt, but whatever he's  _ supposed  _ to be keeping an eye out for, he hasn't seen it. He still doesn't quite believe the whole two-headed snake thing, if he's being completely honest. He's seen a  _ lot _ of weird shit with Geralt, but he can't even  _ imagine _ what this snake-thing will look like, let alone actually know where to  _ look _ for such a creature.

Jaskier's thoughts, however, are soon put to rest when they eventually reach the lake they had been told about, or where it  _ should _ have been, for the entire lake is frozen over, thick ice encasing whatever may lie underneath. Jaskier looks at the frozen expanse and something thick and dark and unnameable swirls about in his gut. He can't put his finger on what, or why, but there is a sense of dread and doom and danger that surrounds this place. He hopes they don't have to stay here too long.

But his thoughts are (yet again) interrupted as another blow of icy wind chills him to the very bone, he lets out a pitiful moan, the feeling in his arms gradually slipping no matter how hard he tries to keep them warm. The entire lake is  _ covered _ in ice, surely whatever monster may be living in it is long dead.  _ Can't they just go back? _ Find somewhere that isn't so gloomy-feeling and build a nice fire and have something to eat and just not be walking about in the sub-zero temperatures with every single body part going numb and everything unbelievably cold.

Geralt, however, doesn't seem to think of retreat as an option. His 'Witchery senses' have obviously picked up something Jaskier's plain-old human ones haven't, for there is a grimness to his expression as he climbs off of Roach. He hands her reigns to Jaskier with nothing but a grunt. "Stay here." He says, short and low, tone brooking no argument. 

Tentatively, he puts a foot onto the iced-over lake. He shifts his weight around a bit, stamps on it, waits.

The ice holds, not a crack in sight. With only a quick look of warning at Jaskier, he steps onto the ice and makes his way carefully to the centre. Jaskier watches him, shivering as he shifts closer to Roach's warm flank. The reigns slip through his numb fingers, falling to the floor. Roach won't bolt, however. She's a good mare, loyal. She whinnies gently from beside him and he huddles closer, teeth still chattering as he watches Geralt head further and further away. They both seem to be holding their breath and although Roach is just a horse, Jaskier thinks that she is just as worried about Geralt as he is. If the ice were to break, if Geralt were to make one wrong move, one faltering step, Jaskier doesn't know if he'd survive. 

All is silent, all is quiet. The ice is completely still, not a single monster in sight. Jaskier almost breathes a sigh of relief, thinking that this is it. There's no two-headed-snake-thing hell-bent on killing them all, so they can  _ leave _ and start a fire and Jaskier can stop worrying about the ever-increasing chances of one of his limbs getting frostbite and falling off.

Then, suddenly, with a furious roar and the sickening sound of cracking ice, the Amphisbaena tears itself from the icy water. The serpent's scales, a swampish green, are ghostlike in the low light. It glows like sickness, sinister and supernatural-like. It twists, writhes about, body snaking up from the water onto the sheathed ice. It moves surprisingly quick, with finesse and a svelteness to its body that Jaskier would not have expected, looking at its clumsy form. Its two heads loom from above Geralt, its body long enough that they move as if independent from the other. It's an awful creature. Ugly and poisonous and feral, dagger-teeth glinting of danger and snake-eyes unblinking and stolid. With it comes the icy lake water, dripping off of its twisted body, pouring over Geralt and leaving his clothes sodden and no doubt freezing cold. Had the situation been less dangerous, Jaskier might have taken more time to appreciate the way Geralt's wet clothes…  _ enhanced _ the finer parts of him; (the finer parts being  _ all of him _ ) but the sound of cracking ice continued to ring out over the woodlands and all Jaskier could think about was the anxiety thrumming through his blood.

Geralt takes a step back from the gaping hole in the ice, the cracks that form like shattered glass from the very heart of the lake. It's dangerous, now. The beast has the upper hand. One wrong move and Geralt will be sent plunging to the icy depths below. He'll be easy pickings for a monster that size, with teeth that razor-sharp.

The two fight and Jaskier watches, the numbness of his limbs temporarily forgotten as Geralt is flung back, struggling to get a hold on the slippery surface. He slides across the lake, but somehow manages to get his bearings once more, leaping forwards to slice at one of the monster's thick necks, yet for all the power of his swing, it barely makes a dent under the armour of scales. 

They continue to fight, a dangerous dance on the very blink of ice-void, above the freezing water. Geralt parries its bared teeth, forcing the monster back time and time again, landing more and more hits. 

Clashing for a few minutes, it appears like Geralt has the upper hand. One of the heads had disappeared underwater after a particularly well-aimed slash of Geralt's sword, now only the other one remained. The Amphisbaena is shrinking back, closer and closer to the very centre of the lake. Geralt moves towards it, towards the place where the ice has thinned and cracked. His steps grow more cautious, his feet trying to tread as lightly as possible. He moves until he has the last of the heads at his mercy, there's no way he'll miss it. His victory seems to be a certainty. 

But from this distance, Jaskier watches as the once-submerged head rises, snaking up from beside Geralt, very much alive and well. Jaskier feels as if the beast glances at him, cruel face smiling, as it rears upwards; taking advantage of Geralt's distraction. He's too busy with the other head, he won't be able to move away in time, not on this ice. He pauses for only the briefest of moments, hands around his lute, abandoning the instrument next to Roach. With a yell and not a moments thought of his safety, Jaskier leaps onto the surface of the lake. He does not think once to steady his footfalls or to tread lightly and gently. He just  _ runs,  _ as fast as he possibly can, heart thumping wildly in his chest. 

He slips and slides, feet instantly losing their hold, but he manages to steady himself; manages to stay upright. He runs on heavy feet, darting across the expanse of ice, heading straight towards Geralt. He is closer now, the Amphisbaena watches him from the corner of its eyes. Its forked tongue slithers out and Jaskier is  _ so close _ to Geralt, only a few feet away. With a yell, he leaps forward, arms shoving Geralt to the side, pushing him far away from the Amphisbaena's second head. It is not a hard task, to push someone on ice, and Geralt goes sliding to the left, sword clashing with the bared teeth of the other head. (Jaskier thinks that, once this is over, this will all be a rather difficult tale to tell. Too many fucking heads)

Jaskier breathes heavily, chest heaving as he looks at Geralt, golden eyes blown wide. He keeps glancing over at Jaskier, movements jagged and hurried as his gaze flickers from that of the Amphisbaena and back to him. They both know what he is looking at, why he looks at Jaskier as though this is the end.

Jaskier can only watch, prepare for the inevitable for he has no weapons, no means of defence, not even his lute. Geralt opens his mouth, shouting something. Blood rushes in Jaskier's ears, he can't hear him. All he can hear is the heavy pounding of his pulse, the toxic breaths of the Amphisbaena as it readies to strike.

A shadow looms above him. The Amphisbaena's second head blocks out the light from above like dark storm clouds. Its teeth glint mottled yellow in the gloom, its eyes sharp and steady, trained on Jaskier who suddenly feels very small, very weak and very frail. 

"Run, you moron!" Jaskier hears somebody shout. It must be Geralt. It  _ has _ to be, but it falls on deaf ears. It feels as though he's hearing the words through a dream, as though the person speaking is somewhere far away from where he is now.

" _Fucking_ _run_!"

But it's too late. The Amphisbaena rears its ugly head and Jaskier can only watch, completely motionless, as it comes crashing down towards him.

There's a scream, he thinks it might be his own, that rips through the gloom. Blood-curdling, the scream of someone who knows that death awaits them. 

The ice cracks beneath him and Jaskier plunges into the water below. 

x

"Fuck." Geralt murmurs, words hot under his breath as he watches Jaskier go under.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, eyes dilated and senses heightened, he makes quick work of the amphisbaena. His body is pushed to its very limits by a sense of panic he hasn't felt in _ years _ . His breaths come heavy, chest heaving with effort, as he eventually slices one of the amphisbaena's heads clean off, before making quick work of the other one. He moves on instinct, sheer muscle memory taking over. He takes risks, moves where he would not have and turns his attack to the offence, as opposed to the defence. It is bold, brash, unsafe. He usually fights  _ smarter,  _ but smarter is  _ slower _ and he cannot afford that right now. 

With a final slashing of his sword, the second head is disembodied. The grotesque shape, mottled tongue hanging out between venom-tipped teeth, is flung off. It flies through the air, landing a few metres away with a resounding  _ thud,  _ soon followed by the cracking of ice as it plunges under. The long body that remains writhes and thrashes about before it too falls still, the creature now completely and utterly dead.

He runs to where Jaskier had disappeared, the gaping hole in the ice. It's black; a deep, endless void and Jaskier is  _ down  _ there. He's trapped in this freezing water, injured and most likely unconscious. Geralt's heart flies to his throat.

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

He plunges his hands into the freezing water and it  _ burns.  _ It's unbelievably cold, just the first touch of it like daggers cutting into skin. Geralt can only imagine what it must feel like for Jaskier, a  _ human,  _ who is fully submerged in it.

The thought drives him further, harder. He plunges his arms deeper, up to his elbows, almost up to his shoulders. It's numb, his limbs are numb and he still can't find Jaskier.

He pushes himself flat onto the ice, as close to the water as he dares. (if he falls in then they'll both be dead. His limbs would seize up instantly and it would all be in vain. Jaskier would be dead and it would all be his fault.  _ All of this _ is his fault. He should have forced Jaskier to stay behind, he should have been there to protect him, he should have-) His breathing is short, his eyes wild and his heart thumping uncontrollably in his chest. He feels fear, true  _ raw _ fear. A feeling he has not felt so clearly in many a moon.  _ Fear for another, fear for someone who you wish to save.  _ It is a foreign feeling, one that Geralt is wholly unaccustomed to, and he is reminded why Witchers are encouraged to keep their distance. This pain, this  _ agony _ that surges through him at the mere thought that Jaskier might be lost to him is a feeling like no other.  _ He has to find him. He has to save him. Jaskier can't die, he can't!  _ But the water just gets deeper and no matter how hard Geralt tries, no matter how much his arms burn and his eyes sting and his entire body  _ aches _ with the effort, he still can't find Jaskier. 

Eventually, after what feels like hours and years and  _ centuries,  _ Geralt feels fabric in between his fingers. He heaves it up with as much speed as he can muster, tired muscles straining. His heart is choking; as if it is lodged in his windpipe. Emotions swirl about him like a lightning storm,  _ please let Jaskier be okay, please let him be okay, please- _

With it, comes Jaskier. His skin white, pale. Tinged with blue. His lips are bruised, eyes hollow and dark. He coughs, splutters. Water pours from his mouth in great heaving gasps and his body shakes frantically. He spasms, whites of his eyes showing as the blue rolls to the back of his head. His face is twisted in pain, his entire body convulsed in white-hot panic.

Then, without warning, he stops. Water is still trickling from between agape lips, but his entire body falls limp. His eyes shut, his breathing slows, his trembling ceases. He looks dead, he's so  _ fucking  _ cold and Geralt can't tell if he's still breathing. He doesn't appear to be injured in any other way, however, aside from a few painful-looking bruises. There is no blood, no wounds or open cuts or anything else that might hint to be an injury. It's a small blessing, for he hangs lifeless in Geralt's grasp, head lolling backwards and eyes slipped shut.

He hauls him out of the water, pulling him tightly into his arms before he leaps to stand, feet skidding on the ice. He runs as fast as his legs will let him, runs towards Roach, Jaskier's lifeless body cradled in his arms.

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

Jaskier is completely still. His head is pressed against Geralt's neck, the bare skin of his collarbone. There is no warm puff of breaths against his skin. No warmth, no heat that would let Geralt know he's alive. But he has to  _ hope.  _ He can't stop, not now. If he  _ is _ still alive, then he won't survive much longer in this condition.

If he is dead… well, Geralt will cross that bridge if he gets there. He doesn't want to think about it, not right now.

He eventually reaches Roach, flinging their packs off the horse, frantically looking for their bedrolls, their spare clothes,  _ anything  _ he can find that they can use for warmth. He rests Jaskier atop of Roach, hands coming to rest on freezing hips as he lifts the ragdoll body upwards. Jaskier is much heavier than one might think, but there's no way Geralt is leaving him on the snow-damp floor. He haphazardly throws bundles of clothes over Jaskier, slumped on Roach's broad back. Some of them fall off onto the floor, ruined and damp and snow-coated. Geralt curses under his breath, they'll be useless now. Too cold to wear, too wet to be substituted as blankets. He needs to take Jaskier's clothes off, too; but maybe making a fire first would be better. His mind flits through thoughts in a whirl, a crazed snowstorm of panic as he thinks back to years before.

He forces himself to try and remember some basic first aid. He's shit at it, (both of them are. They're both fucking useless and it's a miracle they've both survived this long) but there must be  _ something _ he can remember.

They need a fire. Jaskier needs to get out of those wet clothes, desperately. 

He dithers for a moment, an action he is most unaccustomed to. He's used to always being sure and certain of his movements, someone who does most things with  _ intent,  _ with meaning and thought. But he's so unsure here. For Jaskier's hard lines of muscles and fiery spirit, he is only a human, and they are fragile. Geralt doesn't know what he's doing, he doesn't want to make things worse, because  _ dammit,  _ Jaskier  _ is _ his friend. He's the only person who's stuck around him, the only person who always comes back. Even when they part, their split is only a temporary measure; they will return to one another's side eventually. Their paths always seem to cross and they always seem to fall against one another, finding each other despite all chance and probability. Jaskier had written songs about him, tried so hard to make people view him,  _ a Witcher _ , differently. He'd stuck beside him, for better and for worse and  _ now _ he was here. Pale, lifeless, barely breathing. He has to do  _ something _ . He can't lose another thing he cares about. He can't lose Jaskier.

He can't bear the thought that  _ this _ is his fault. That  _ this _ is what happens when you befriend a Witcher. That the only thing they bring with them is pain and suffering and  _ death.  _ Geralt should have pushed him away, he should have left Jaskier, never let him join his travels. But they're here now. There's nothing that can be done. Jaskier had followed because he  _ wanted _ to, Geralt reminds himself.  _ And now it's your job to save his life. Before it's too late.  _

He needs to get  _ warm,  _ and Geralt knows all too well that the quickest way to warm somebody up is skin to skin contact.

_ Fuck. _

x

The fire is made slower than Geralt would have liked. The ground is sodden, any fallen branches damp and almost unusable. It takes far too long for Geralt to find anything he could possibly set alight, but  _ eventually, _ he manages to find some logs and shrubbery which have been covered by a canopy of closely intertwined trees. They're still slightly wet and certainly not as dry as one would hope when starting a fire. It's a small-ish fire that he ends up making, but considering the circumstances, it will have to suffice. It is better than nothing, after all.

The fire is started and Geralt eventually moves Jaskier off of Roach, wincing at the coolness of his skin and the blueness of his lips. He's still alive, though. Now that Geralt is slightly calmer, he can hear Jaskier's soft breaths. If it wasn't for the ice of his touch or the pallidness of his face, Geralt could have said he was sleeping; he could almost convince himself that he was peaceful, comfortable, not standing on Death's door.

But Jaskier's clothes are soaking wet, sticking to his skin in all manners of uncomfortable ways. They  _ have _ to come off. There are no two ways about it.

Geralt tries to do it with a manner of professionalism, (not that it matters, because the only other person here, unless you're counting Roach, is completely unconscious) keeping his movements swift and faultless and trying to ignore how  _ wrong _ it feels to be undressing Jaskier, somebody who feels the need to commentate almost anything, who is now barely with life and completely silent. 

Geralt had always complained about all the noise that Jaskier made, whether it be his singing or his lute-playing or, in general, just his  _ voice;  _ flowing in incessant chatter that never seemed to end. But now that he was silent, now that Jaskier's skin was blue-tinged, Geralt would long to hear him once more. Hear him complain, hear him whine about how cold it is and how there's not enough food and how his feet are sore. He just wants  _ Jaskeir _ back. There was so much he had yet to say; the things he had never worked up the courage to reveal. But now he might not get that chance. Jaskier might…  _ He has to focus. He has to- Jaskier will be fine. He just needs warming up, that's all. _

There's something quite private about taking off another's clothes, something that makes it all the more awkward and uncomfortable for Geralt. Maybe it's because it's Jaskier. Maybe it's because Jaskier is his  _ friend, _ even if he'd never said it aloud while he had the chance. He's so vulnerable, like this. So weak and fragile, barely holding on. Anyone could have their way with him, if they wished. A monster could stumble upon him, tear him limb from limb and swallow him whole. They could do what they want with his body, take it for their own pleasure. (Geralt has seen it before. Seen monsters rutting against defenceless humans, either dead or barely conscious enough to fight it) 

Maybe Geralt is worried because people call  _ him _ a monster. The Butcher of Blaviken, heartless and ruthless and barren of all thought and feeling. 

(But Jaskier had never called him that, had he? Jaskier  _ trusted _ him. Jaskier  _ trusts _ him)

Jaskier had sacrificed himself for Geralt. Stupid twat. Honourable, brave, loyal,  _ stupid  _ Jaskier. He'd put himself at risk, pushed Geralt out of the way of that monster's attack, and for what? To save Geralt? He doesn't  _ need  _ saving. He's a Witcher. Jaskier shouldn't have… Jaskier got hurt and the entire thing is  _ his fault. _

But fuck,  _ he's so cold _ and there's not enough time to be worrying about this now. Geralt pushes back the guilt, an almost constant companion by this point, and tries to shake all thoughts from his mind. He should focus on the task at hand. Take off Jaskier's soaked clothes,  _ save his life so it wasn't all in fucking vain. _

First, the doublet is removed. Blue fabric stained almost navy. Geralt's fingers (that only shake slightly) undo the silken buttons, sliding them through their holes and peeling them off clammy skin. It's thrown carelessly to the side, landing with a heavy thud and a squelching sort of noise, revealing the expanse of Jaskier's chest. His broad shoulders, wide and strong, the sharpness of his collarbone. Gold flame licks the surface of his skin, enveloping it in crimson light. Hard muscles line his skin, strong biceps, strong stomach. Muscles packed tight from years out on the open road, small scars and cuts laced on his body; the evidence of his songs and the trophies of his many escapes from death. Geralt has heard people describe Jaskier as feminine, no doubt from his flamboyant ways, his dancing and singing and his love of all things fine. But underneath the vibrant colours, the flirtatious winks and scandalous language, Jaskier is most definitely masculine. His bare chest is covered in dark chest hair. It starts just below his neck and reaches down, a trail leading from below his navel, thickening between his legs. He's  _ ridiculously  _ attractive, a fact which Geralt tries to studiously ignore as he continues to undress him. His shirt is soon followed by his trousers, revealing strong, long legs, and then… Geralt deliberates for a few short moments. It's even  _ more _ of an invasion of privacy to remove somebody's fucking pants,  _ especially _ when they're completely unconscious and they can't even have a say in the matter.

But it's a life or death situation and  _ that really doesn't matter right now.  _ They have to come off, lest Jaskier's cock gets fucking frostbite or some shit and falls off. He'd  _ never _ hear the end of it, if that were to happen. (To be fair, the thought of anyone's cock turning black and just… dropping off is enough to make anyone's skin crawl)

So off comes the pants and Jaskier's cock stands out proudly, there for all to see. He's as naked as the day he was born, something which Geralt pretends he is not aware of as he shifts Jaskier's limp body closer to the fire. This entire situation is a _ huge fucking mess _ and Geralt's almost certain there's probably an easier solution to this whole thing, but he isn't a fucking doctor and this was the only goddamn thing he could think to do.

Jaskier is still unconscious, his skin still far too cold. Geralt had been hoping that the blankets and bedrolls and fire would be warming enough. Turns out, they just wouldn't cut it.

And Geralt's clothes, too, are soaking wet. Even if they weren't,  _ skin to skin _ contact is the quickest (and easiest) way to warm somebody up. 

So now  _ he's _ naked too, and there's no spare change of clothes because they're all either wet as shit, draped over Jaskier or on the floor besides Roach; and even if Geralt were to go and get them, there's still snow on the ground, so they'll be wet too.

Basically, they're both naked and if Geralt wants Jaskier to survive then they're both going to have to  _ stay _ naked. You know, for the warmth. 

Which isn't a problem. Except Geralt has no idea how he's going to explain this entire situation if (no,  _ when,  _ Geralt corrects himself) Jaskier wakes up. As in, Jaskier will probably find a way to turn the whole thing into a funny anecdote, a new song or something. But that won't change how fucking awkward it's going to be when Jaskier comes to. 'You were dying and the only thing I could think to do was to strip you down, strip down myself and then put you on my fucking lap and have your ass against my dick and my face in your hair and my hands on your arms and your stomach and your fucking body just… rubbing. For the warmth.' Which is  _ true,  _ completely so. But it's a lot of words to say, to explain something which should be simple, and it will still always remain slightly awkward. Because maybe, if Geralt were to be completely honest, there had been an…  _ energy _ between him and Jaskier for quite some time now. When Jaskier had been sticking his tongue down yet another woman's throat. Geralt  _ swears _ he hadn't been jealous, not one bit, when he'd pulled Jaskier off of her. That's not how Jaskier had seen it, though. Maybe he'd been joking, maybe he'd been drunk, but there'd been a certain shyness in his eyes as he'd laughed at Geralt, arm sliding around his shoulder as he left the disgruntled mistress.

But it's a life or death situation, so they're both going to have to suck it up.

Maybe, though, this is just  _ Geralt's _ issue. Maybe  _ this,  _ all of what has taken place, has proved that Geralt  _ needs _ someone. He needs Jaskier. The thought of him dying now, dying here, with him unable to save his life… He can't bear it. So maybe that's what is awkward, maybe that's why Geralt feels uncertainty and guilt. This is Jaskier and he's… he's more than just a friend.

Somehow he's snuck his way into Geralt's heart, with his incessant chatter and his bawdy songs. He's made his home by his side and Geralt has managed for so long to ignore this, pretend it hasn't been happening. But now,  _ here,  _ he can't pretend.

There's something else that he feels for Jaskier. More than friendship, more than companionship. More than… he doesn't even want to put a name to it. But seeing Jaskier here, nude and pale and unconscious and near-death, so damn  _ vulnerable and weak,  _ it's all just  _ wrong.  _ He shouldn't be like this. Geralt doesn't want to see him like this. He… he can't lose somebody else.  _ He can't lose Jaskier. _

Geralt lifts Jaskier onto his lap, wrapping those sinfully long legs between his own. In another time he would have  _ longed _ for this, for Jaskier's body to be pressed up against his own. But this wasn't right. This wasn't what he wanted.  _ It's all gone wrong and it's all his fault. _ He rubs Jaskier's skin, hands going up and down frantically over his arms and forearms, trying to return some of the warmth to them. With the blankets wrapped tight around them, the fire roaring and Jaskier cradled up against Geralt's chest, all they can do now is wait and hope for the best.

_ 'Don't you dare die on me',  _ Geralt thinks.  _ 'Don't you fucking dare.' _

x

It must be about an hour later when Jaskier eventually stirs.

Geralt has been wide awake all this time, alert and ears open for any other monsters that might be nearby. Thankfully, other than the state of the man in his arms, nothing had gone wrong. There had been no monsters, no bandits, that so commonly roamed the outskirts of villages who had come to wreak havoc. Instead, it had been quiet; eerily so. 

Interspersed between everlasting minutes and century-long seconds, Geralt had been gradually feeling the body against his own begin to warm up. The fire was working, the blankets were warm and it didn't take too long for Jaskier's skin to follow. As time slowly passed, it had seemed more and more likely that Jaskier would survive. The colour was returning somewhat to his cheeks and while Geralt couldn't see his body beneath the layers of bungled up blankets and spare clothes, he could feel the ever-growing warmth emanating from Jaskier's skin. 

Then, with a sudden gasp, Jaskier awakens.

He's trembling all over, as if shocked back to life. He coughs, splutters. Thankfully, no more water comes up. A small blessing, really, in a long series of unlucky events. His chest rattles with the force of his heaving, spit and saliva spilling from his gasping lips, but he is  _ alive.  _ He will be okay. He will survive. Geralt releases a long breath, one he hadn't even realised he'd been holding.

But Jaskier still coughs, his breaths come choked in his chest and both pain and delirium twists at his features, blue eyes slipping shut and jaw clenching and relaxing with sporadic, jerkish movements. Geralt finds himself at an utter loss for what to do, a loss for how he can help, what he can do to comfort. He watches, hands still against Jaskier's skin, as he heaves and groans and moans, body still seizure-esque in its frantic shaking. His hands shift under the blankets, rising to the broad line of Jaskier's shoulders. He rubs his hands against the hard bone, dipping down to the crease of his back, offering what he hopes is comforting touch against the dips of Jaskeir's spine.

" _ Fuck.  _ My head." Jaskier grits out, voice weak and hoarse, but  _ there _ . He's speaking, he can talk.  _ He's still alive. He survived.  _ "What happened?" He lets out a loud moan, shifting against thick limbs as though he's not quite sure where he is. He's still delirious, out of it from the shock, but he is  _ awake. _

"You were attacked." Geralt responds, trying to keep his tone short and brusque. He feels weak, being so emotionally affected by all of this. He doesn't want to show it. He doesn't want to believe that there is somebody in his life who he  _ needs.  _ "You went through the ice." Geralt swallows audibly. "Almost died."

And then Jaskier is looking up at him, tilting his head and revealing the long curve of his throat. The movement jostles the blankets, causing them to slip down Jaskier's broad shoulders. Geralt can see his adam's apple bob with each swallow, each breath. He can see the curled hair on his chest, dark against the sweat-coated sheen of his torso. He looks up at Geralt with his cornflower blue eyes, bleary and confused, but as he focuses on Geralt's face the hazy mist clouded over them begins to part. A smile curls at his lips, cracked and dry but no loner blue and cold. Soft pink spreads across his cheeks and his teeth glint. He looks happy. Ridiculously happy, in the softest kind of way. His hair is ruffled, still damp and curling around his ears and he looks at Geralt like he's hung the stars and moon in the night sky. He looks at Geralt like he is his entire world; like Geralt is the most important thing in his life.

"You...  _ saved _ me." He whispers, so quietly that, if Geralt were not a Witcher, he might not have heard it. "You saved me." He says again, louder this time. He pushes against Geralt, limbs curling against his as his blue eyes soften at their edges. He lowers his eyelashes, powdered shadows against his pink-tinged cheeks. "Thank you." And then he wraps clumsy arms around Geralt's torso, squeezing him in a tight embrace. Geralt's mind freezes and it takes him a few moments to realise what is happening. Jaskier is  _ hugging  _ him. With a hesitant start, an uncertain noise catching in his throat, he returns the embrace, burying his nose in the softness of Jaskier's damp hair. He can feel Jaskier's lips on his skin, feel them pull up into a smile and he can feel the puffed, breathless laughter like spring days and summer mornings.

"I remember some of it." He continues. There's an edge to his voice that makes Geralt's heart twist in his chest. It is vulnerable, fearful. Jaskier has come close to death many times on their travels together, but this is no doubt the closest. He squeezes him tighter, bringing Jaskier impossibly closer to his own body, hoping to cease the tension that has wormed its way into the smoothness of Jaskier's skin. 

"I remember the Amphisbaena… the ice. I was watching, and… the other head, it was  _ right there.  _ I- it was going to attack you, and I just- I just  _ ran.  _ I remember that. I- I don't think I've ever ran so fast, not even when," a breathless laugh escapes him. "Not even when I'd get those angry husbands, knives brandished and their hearts set on cutting off my cock… But I had to do it. I had to get to  _ you,  _ make sure that… that you'd be okay." Jaskier pauses, breath still weak in his lungs. He pulls back from the embrace, lifting his head upwards once more. His eyes sparkle, the lower rim lined with a shimmer of unshed tears. "You've always looked out for me. Even if- even if you say we're not friends, you've always protected me, but… you've got nobody to protect you. There's been nobody to look after  _ you,  _ to make sure  _ you're  _ okay and to make sure you… you don't get hurt." A tear trickles down one of Jaskier's cheeks, luminous against his pale skin. "I want to be the one to look after you." Jaskier shifts himself, turning so he can bury his face in the crook of Geralt's neck. He can feel the dampness of tears against his skin.

Usually, Geralt would shy away from contact like this. He's never been physical, never been a touchy-feely kind of person. But with Jaskier here, like  _ this,  _ he thinks he might have to change his stance on the whole no-contact thing. Their emotions are both running at all-time highs. Thoughts and feelings and words that have gone unsaid swirl about them in hazy clouds and salt-tasting tears. Geralt brings him closer once more, revels in the touch that he had once cut off. He never realised how much he  _ needed _ something like this. Someone to hold him, someone who he could hold. But not just  _ someone,  _ it was Jaskier. It was  _ always _ Jaskier, and it always will be for the rest of his days. 

Jaskier, the utter  _ fool,  _ had risked his own life to keep Geralt safe. He'd… he'd been only a few scant steps away from  _ death _ and it was to save a Witcher.  _ A Witcher!  _ A creature that was  _ made _ to last, made to be hardy and to heal quickly and to withstand even the worst conditions. Jaskier had put himself, a  _ human,  _ a race that was notorious for their fleeting lifespans and their many weaknesses, in harm's way to ensure Geralt's safety. He  _ is  _ a fool. One with little to no sense of self-preservation, apparently. He's a fucking fool and Geralt looks down at him, looks at the handsome face pushed into his collarbone and he  _ knows. _

He's known for a while now, really, but he's never dared put words to it. But now he can't  _ not.  _ He  _ loves _ Jaskier. Somehow, along the way, he's fallen in love with the foolhardy, arrogant, whiny bard who's also kind and sweet and witty, who makes him hide smiles and laughter behind a well-placed hand or makes the lonely nights no longer so long nor lonely. He  _ needs _ Jaskier more than he's needed anything in his life.

And, maybe, Jaskier needs him too. 

So Geralt just holds him tight against his chest for a while, his hands wrapped around his back and his nose breathing in the scent of Jaskier's hair, which smells like the outdoors and like ice and sweat and blood, but under it all lingers the faint scent of chamomile.

Eventually, Jaskier pulls away, shifting once more so the length of his back is pressed up against Geralt's chest. He moves his head under Geralt's chin, an impromptu chin-rest, and he begins to talk. His voice is still a bit lilted, his movements still sluggish and slow, suggesting that he's still not quite with it all. He certainly hasn't noticed the state of undress they're both in - something which Geralt finds both inordinately pleasing yet simultaneously disappointing.

"Now  _ this  _ is going to make a fine song. The story of a humble musician, travelling with his companion and, despite all the odds against him, he manages to defeat the icy claws of death at every turn.  _ And _ I was also very heroic, saving my silver-haired friend from the maws of a two-headed demon." He pauses, humming the beginnings of a jaunty tune. He is awakening from his doze and (aside from the state of undress they are both currently in) everything appears to be turning back to normal. Then, he freezes, stilling as his eyes widen with panic. "Oh fuck, is my lute alright? I can't remember if-" 

"It's fine." Geralt interrupts, head gesturing towards Roach, where the said instrument can just be seen peeking from around the horse's legs. Jaskier breathes a deep sigh of relief. Geralt's heart does something funny when he realises that Jaskier was more bothered about the safety of his fucking lute than himself. 

"You…" Geralt swallows. He's never been good with words, but  _ now… _ he doesn't know how to convey what he's feeling, how to put his emotions into speech that Jaskier can  _ understand.  _ "You could have  _ died. _ " He inhales sharply. "You almost did." 

_ It was my fault,  _ Geralt wants to say.  _ If you'd never met me, if I'd never let you follow me around, none of this would have ever happened. _

And Jaskier looks up at him once more and his eyes are half shut, clearer now than they once had been. His expression has sobered, and when he talks there is no silver lilt to his voice, no jovial tune nor no lingering joke. He is being serious, completely serious. His confusion upon waking has vanished, the clouds over his eyes gone and the doziness to his gaze forgotten. He is  _ alive,  _ his skin is warm and he is no longer shaking. He is alive and he looks at Geralt in the strangest of ways, a mixture between fondness and sadness, sweet and knowing. 

"It's not your fault." He says, and Geralt's surprise must register on his face because Jaskier quickly continues. "I  _ know _ that's what you're thinking, you don't have to say it. When you're feeling guilty there's this little crease…" Jaskier shifts under the blankets, one of his arms emerging as he pushes a long finger, the tips of them rough and calloused from his lute-playing, against the middle of Geralt's brow. "right  _ here,"  _ His finger traces a line across Geralt's skin. "And when you're worried, or upset," his finger moves down, coming to rest at the corner of his mouth. "You hold your mouth differently; not too much, mind you. You're very good at hiding your emotions, you know, it's taken me  _ years _ to figure out all of this; but I think I'm pretty good at it now." He shifts about, a certain feline mischievousness sliding onto his face as he stares up at Geralt. "I might be an expert. It's another skill to add to my neverending list of talents-"

He breaks off, suddenly. Cheeks flushing red, eyes widening.  _ Fuck _ , he's realised. 

"G-Geralt… are we…  _ naked? _ " He asks, voice rising in pitch. His hands return under the blankets and Geralt can feel the nervous shift of them against the cloth.

_ Fuck. _

"Yes." He eventually responds, words pulled out from behind clenched teeth. "You were cold." And he says it like that brooks no arguments, trying to convince both himself and Jaskier that there's nothing strange about this situation whatsoever. 

And Jaskier seems to accept that. His skin is warm and Geralt can still see the pinkness of his cheeks, but… he doesn't seem to be  _ disgusted,  _ or be feeling particularly negative about this entire situation. 

In fact…

Jaskier begins to squirm about on Geralt's lap. He can feel the brush of hands against his stomach, rising to his chest as if to check that they really are naked. Jaskier's skin is growing warmer, almost unbearably so, and his face is burning red. He shifts again, ass wiggling on Geralt's thighs. Maybe he's more hurt than Geralt had first realised. Maybe there were other injuries that he'd missed. He definitely hadn't broken any bones, but bruised ribs could still hurt like a bitch.

Without thinking, Geralt moves the blankets from atop them and shifts Jaskier's body so it's bathed by the firelight. Jaskier lets out a yelp, grasping for the blankets in some strange sense of modesty. Geralt looks down at Jaskier's body, insistent in looking for any injury that he may have missed earlier on, but what he sees stops him in his tracks. 

Jaskier is  _ hard.  _ His cock is standing out proudly from a thicket of dark hair. It's long, thick, the tip of it flushed and leaking. He looks at it, painted crimson in the firelight. He…  _ oh.  _ Jaskier is… this situation has…  _ he's turned on by this. _

"Don't… don't just fucking  _ stare _ at it, Geralt." Jaskier whines, hands trying their best to cover his shame. "It's a  _ perfectly normal reaction.  _ I'm naked, sitting on another naked person who happens to be abnormally attractive." He's barely even aware of what Jaskier is saying, for the life of him he can't tear his eyes away from it. His mouth is dry, his tongue sits heavy in his mouth and  _ gods _ he wants to wrap his hands around Jaskier's cock, feel it in the palm of his hands, touch and stroke and squeeze until Jaskier melts like butter in his lap, until he's breathless and flushed and  _ hot and sweaty and oh god.  _ "S-stop looking at it! Fuck off, Geralt. It'll go down in a bit… probably, just... "

"It's fine." Geralt interrupts, eyes still trained on the slight curve of Jaskier's cock. It's… pretty. A word Geralt wouldn't usually think of when describing a rock hard penis, but there you go. It  _ is  _ a pretty cock, and Geralt's seen a fair few in his lifetime. It's… well, it's  _ Jaskier _ and every piece of him is unfairly so. Geralt doesn't know what he was expecting. (It's also quite large, certainly above average. No wonder Jaskier seems to have such a reputation amongst the women, Geralt absentmindedly thinks, eyes still trained on the dark thicket of hair that surrounds his cock and balls, the shining precum that is almost luminescent on the tip)

"It's f-fine." Geralt says again, louder this time and his voice  _ fucking breaks.  _ Jaskier looks up at him, eyes meeting one another's and there must be  _ something _ in Geralt's gaze because Jaskier  _ smiles _ in a way that makes his heart  _ burn. _ There's a smile that can only be described as coy toying on his lips and Jaskier's earlier embarrassment melts away.  _ This _ is the man who seduces any woman who takes his fancy, this is the man who flirts and laughs and  _ fucks _ whoever he wants whenever he wants.  _ This _ is the face that furious husbands see, that tight fucking body, those full lips and dark eyes, so  _ hot _ while he's balls deep in their wives. 

"It's  _ fine _ , is it? Just  _ fine? _ " And then he  _ wiggles _ on Geralt's lap, ass grinding into his cock.  _ Fucking tease.  _

"Since you're so interested in looking at it, perhaps you'd like to help with my little problem…?" ( _ It's not a 'little' problem,  _ Geralt wants to respond with. The words get caught in his throat, however, when Jaskier's teeth dig into his bottom lip, crimson blooming bright) He trails off, eyes looking up at Geralt, lashes lowered under his widened pupils. This is a proposition, there are no two ways to look about it. 

Geralt almost complies.  _ Almost,  _ but then he comes to his senses.

"No." And Jaskier looks  _ wounded.  _ "You're… you're injured." He continues. "You're not in the right state of mind to do this." He swallows, ignoring the expression worn plain on Jaskier's face. (Why is he always so damn expressive?) "You don't know what you want."

Jaskier's eyes darken impossibly so. He looks…  _ angry.  _ An expression Geralt rarely sees on Jaskier's face, an expression he's certainly never seen directed at him. "I don't know what  _ I _ want? That's a bit rich, coming from  _ you."  _ His words sting, maybe it's the truth that rings through. But there's grim determination set on his face, burning in his blue eyes, cold and hard. "I'll  _ show you _ what I want, whether you help me or not."

Jaskier shifts, stretching out his body until it's in full line of Geralt's view. He wraps his ankles around one another, toes curling as he takes his own cock between his palms. Geralt's mouth goes completely dry.

He writhes against Geralt, ass grinding down into his own cock, pushing against the growing hardness there. He tips his head back, eyes never once leaving Geralt's, as his fingers begin to play with the head of his cock, swirling precum around the tip. The noises he makes are  _ sinful, _ guttural moans from deep within his throat, needy whines as he wraps his long fingers around his shaft, hands sliding up and down in a rhythmic sensuality that Geralt can't tear his eyes from.

His other hand reaches down to fondle at his ballsack and his moans grow louder, needier and more wanton. He's still looking up at Geralt, not once breaking eye contact as he pumps up and down on his own leaking cock. A smile toys on his lips, eyelashes fluttering as he moans long and deep, voice husked and groaning. "Geralt…" He whispers and he knows  _ exactly _ what he's doing.  _ Bastard,  _ Geralt thinks with only a little contempt. He's certainly good at proving his point. 

His lips claim Jaskier's own, hands grabbing at his hips, lifting him up so their cocks are flush against one each other. Jaskier is loud, no surprises there, and Geralt swallows the whines and moans slipping from between his lips. They pull apart, a string of saliva connecting their lips together, and Geralt wraps his large hands around both of them, pushing them flush together.

"Oh  _ fuck,  _ you glorious bastard." Jaskier half laughs, half moans, tipping his head backwards, revealing the long line of his throat, the bob of his adam's apple.

Geralt places kisses against the length, teeth and tongue working with the intent to  _ mark,  _ to stake his claim. To show  _ everyone _ that they were one, together. That Jaskier is  _ his _ and he is Jaskier's.

Jaskier's hands are  _ everywhere _ , fingers tracing and touching and pinching and  _ like fire _ against Geralt's skin. 

They mark and bite and their lips meet, hands touching and stroking and caressing every inch of skin that is laid bare. The fire is beginning to burn out, the light dimming and the stars overhead growing brighter. Neither notice, both too focused on the other, on the heat and warmth and burning, the wild thumping of their hearts and the light that runs through their veins like the silver spun moon. 

A rhythm is set up, of touching and feeling and the all-consuming fire that envelops them. Scarlet want, scarlet need. Geralt's hand quickens its pace, Jaskier grinds into it, nails digging into Geralt's back. It's not even sex, it's just a lousy handjob, but  _ gods _ if a fucking handjob feels like this neither can wait to experience what comes next. Geralt is certain there will be a  _ next _ , because  _ gods _ Jaskier is fucking  _ gorgeous _ like this, skin sweaty and glowing, hair matted on his chest and rosy nipples erect. He's  _ hot _ and muscular and he's writhing about on Geralt's lap like a bitch in heat, long legs wrapped around Geralt's waist and the  _ noises _ that were coming from his lips… It was better than Geralt could have ever imagined and  _ it was still only a fucking handjob.  _

And then it's all too much, Geralt's hands around both their hot cocks, his teeth digging into the pale flesh of Jaskier's shoulder. He comes with a cry, blue eyes slipping shut, hair plastered to his forehead. Geralt follows soon after, breathing laboured and heavy. 

He sees  _ stars, _ constellations on his eyelids, shooting stars and comets and the very cosmos printed on his eyes. "Oh fuck," Jaskier groans, voice breathless and husky. " _ Oh fuck,  _ Geralt." He repeats.

But Geralt can see the exhaustion catching up with him, the aches and pains from the cold water, the fatigue of escaping the clutches of death. Jaskier stifles a yawn, blinking somewhat sleepily. He leans into Geralt's chest, apparently too tired to care about the sticky mess between their stomachs. They'll have to clean up in the morning… but for now, this is nice.

"When we next get the chance, I want you to fuck me. Or me to fuck you, I don't really mind, to be honest. But that was  _ amazing  _ and it was literally just a glorified wank, so-" He's cut off by a rumbling laugh erupting from deep within Geralt's chest. Jaskier looks up at him with those wide eyes, cheeks still flushed and skin still warm.

And, at that moment, with the two of them there under the night sky, all is right within the world. 

"You know, maybe I should fall into freezing-cold lakes more often, if this is the result." 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay I'm in love with the idea of buff Jaskier and it's literally my favourite thing I just... fksfkjsegb
> 
> (Also the fuckin snake thing monster that I had to copy and paste every time I mentioned it bc i have no idea how to spell it was thanks to me googling 'water enemies in the witcher' and idek if it works, so sorry about that)


End file.
